by Monica James
His head hangs low as his raspy breaths evoke my body to swell, frantic for a release too. But once again, shame overcomes me, because I shouldn’t respond to him this way, but I do…time and time again.
Memories of when his fingers were on me, in me, only stoke this fire, and the temptation to soothe this ache between my legs overwhelms me, but then I remember his cruelness. I remember everything he’s done to me—the humiliation he makes me feel—and my high soon fades.
I came out here to teach him a lesson, but once again, it seems he’s taught me something. Whatever I feel for him seems to be strengthening and evolving, no matter how badly I don’t want it to.
Once Saint’s breathing returns to normal, he cups some water and passes it over his body and through his hair. He sweeps his wet locks back, and the sight is too much. Placing the knife back into my bra, I turn the way I came and creep through the jungle and away from the image of Saint exploding with a guttural moan.
My flesh is warm and ripe, but the farther away I walk, the need soon simmers. When I get to the hut, without delay, I reach the rope and climb it, desperate to get away from what I just saw. Memories of why I went there fade because Drew seems to be the furthest thing from my mind.
What is wrong with me?
Curling into a fetal position on the hard floor, I close my eyes and promise not to think about what I just saw. But through the darkness, no matter how hard I try to lock them away, I see Saint’s angel wings and hear his ardent moans when he came; it’s the lullaby which lulls me to sleep.
I wake to my stomach growling.
Propping open an eye, I see that it’s daylight, which means I slept for a few hours. Rising slowly, my body screams in protest. Everything hurts. My mouth is drier than the Sahara Desert.
Reaching for a bottle of water, I crack open the lid and take a small sip, testing to see if it’s any good. Apart from being hot, it tastes like heaven, and I throw back the entire contents. Once water fills my belly, it gurgles, hinting it needs to be filled with food.
Unsure where Saint is, I decide to head down to the beach to grab a change of clothes. He mentioned a pond filled with rainwater, which is screaming my name. I’ll bathe and then think about what to eat.
The descent down the rope is a little easier, but I will be glad when I’m in underwear and a pair of shorts. Not to mention shoes. I stagger through the rocky terrain, flinching as the soles of my feet are raw.
Following the trail I left yesterday, I find the shoreline easily enough. Memories of what I saw early this morning crash into me, but I put them out of my mind and focus on bathing and finding food. The box with my clothes sits where I left it, so I open it up and grab the toiletry pack, underwear, denim shorts, a white tank, and some tennis shoes.
Saint’s bag with his journal and sudoku book is nowhere to be seen.
Just as I close the lid, a rustle from the trees has my head snapping up. Saint emerges with his hands filled with coconuts. When we lock eyes, he pauses but soon recovers.
He’s ripped his pants into shorts, and the jagged edges cover his knees, but he’s still topless. He looks rugged and rough as his beard has grown and an elastic band ties his hair back. The shorter strands have slipped free from the tie, and it seems the saltwater has given him edgy beach waves.
His body rivals Michelangelo, and all the ink just adds to the appeal. I really wish he’d put on a shirt because seeing him this way just cements my attraction to him.
I don’t know where we stand, seeing as the last time we spoke was when he exposed the ugly truth. My heart feels heavy when I remember Saint’s confession. “Sold you in a game of poker!”
Frowning, I avert my gaze, not wanting him to see my eyes grow wet with tears.
“I found some coconuts,” he says, breaking the silence. “With the bottled water, I’ll bring it down here and keep it in the water so it stays cool.”
Good idea.
Nodding, I stand, gathering my clothes to my chest. “Where is the pond?” I ask, my voice small.
“I’ll show you,” he replies, walking over and dumping the coconuts near the box.
Up close, it’s difficult not to replay what I saw him do, but I nod, hoping my inner thoughts don’t give me away.
He leads the way, and I follow. However, when we get to the edge of the jungle, I slip on my tennis shoes. A small piece of independence returns when I’m able to walk over the rocky ground without Saint helping me.
We walk the journey in silence, both at a loss for words. I don’t know what I feel. I’m a mixed bag of emotions, but at the forefront is betrayal. No matter how cruel Saint’s words were, I know they were the truth. Drew never loved me; I was merely a pawn in his sick, twisted game.
Not only did he sell me like chattel, but he also took out a life insurance policy, making me feel like nothing but a means to an end—which is what Saint once told me I was. How could I have been such a fool?
However, I focus on where we’re going because I need to know how to get here on my own. When we pass the purple flowering bush, I decide to leave markers so I know where to go in the future. The terrain becomes more compact, so I stop when I can and rip the hem of my dress, tying the material to branches and plants. By the time I’m done, the short hemline exposes much of my legs.
I should be shy, but I’m not. It’s nothing Saint hasn’t seen before. He allows me to do my thing, watching closely as I leave my trail of breadcrumbs. We turn left and venture between two towering trees arching over the other and a large, clear pond beyond that.
Rocks cover the ground, and a bent tree trunk protruding from the water’s edge gives me the perfect place to hang my clothes. The flourishing leaves from the towering trees provide a perfect screen for privacy.
Walking to the edge, I stand on one foot and take off my shoe, balancing it on the tree trunk. I do the same with the other. Saint is still here, watching me.
“There is a cave just beyond those trees,” he says, pointing straight ahead. “I’ll look inside and see if I can find anything.”
“Okay,” I reply, not really sure why he’s being so informative, seeing as he’s been anything but in the past.
He rocks back on his heels, appearing to want to say something, but he doesn’t. He nods once before walking back the way we came, leaving me alone.
When I can no longer hear his footsteps, I untie the bow from around my waist and kick my ruined dress aside. Unhooking my bra, I toss it and my knife on the trunk, then rub over my shoulders where the tight straps have left deep indentions. It feels liberating to be naked.
I stroll into the water, gasping when it cools my heated skin. I will never take fresh water for granted again because this feels amazing. My muscles unwind as I bob up and down, wetting my body before flopping onto my back. I’m a water angel as I float, skimming the water with my fingertips.
The sun beams down on me, and I close my eyes, allowing the stillness to take over. Even though I’m lost to the world, this is the first time in days I’ve felt at peace. Drew’s treachery never leaves my mind, but I allow myself this small reprieve of just being in the moment.
I don’t know what the future holds, but I’m proud of myself for coming this far. It’s only been eleven days, but it feels like eleven years as each minute, each second has tested me in ways I never imagined.
If I was back home, would I have allowed someone like Saint to treat me or to touch me in the way he has? The answer is no. But not many people will ever have to face these circumstances in their lifetime. I don’t understand my attraction to Saint. He’s not someone I would usually find myself attracted to.
I wonder if maybe I’m suffering from some form of Stockholm Syndrome. I am certainly not in love with Saint, but I’m not repulsed by him either even though I should be. He is not a good man, and he guards so many secrets, but instead of that being a deterrent, I find myself wanting to know more.
He has been cruel, physically and emotionally, but he’s
also been kind. Anyone looking in would scoff at my thoughts, but I can’t help how I feel. Maybe I’m truly broken after all?
Deciding I won’t solve this mystery anytime soon, I stand and walk over to my toiletries. As I unwrap the soap, the smell of lavender hits me, evoking memories of being handcuffed to Saint. I walk into the deeper water, then dip the bar of soap into the water and lather up a soapy handful.
I pass it over my body, sighing in bliss as I wash away the filth. Not wanting to waste too much, I toss it onto the dry land and begin to wash my hair with the shampoo and conditioner. The knots are terrible, so I run my fingers through it, eventually able to brush out the snags.
When I feel clean and more like myself, I brush my teeth and rinse off and make my way to my clothes. I don’t have a towel, but with the blistering sun, I will be dry in a few minutes.
A thought suddenly hits me. What happens if I get my period while here?
Thanks to my IUD, I haven’t had a period in months, but I have to prepare myself just in case. However, all thoughts are put on hold because as I wring out my hair, I hear something rustling in the bushes. I pause, head tilted to the side, to ensure I’m not hearing things.
When it sounds again, I yelp, afraid Saint has returned. I quickly slip into my clothes, beyond thankful to be in underwear and shorts. Pocketing my knife, I wait for Saint to emerge, but he doesn’t. The air suddenly falls silent, and I begin to question my sanity.
Shaking my head, I tie my hair into a topknot, twisting the strands of hair to secure it into place. I feel a million times better. Deciding on heading back to the beach, I gather my things and follow my trail. This place is truly a labyrinth. If not for the pieces of cloth, I would be lost. Saint’s ability to navigate is impressive, but I suppose in his line of work, he needs to know his surroundings like the back of his hand.
The purple flowers are ahead, so I make my way toward them; however, there is no mistaking the rustling of leaves this time. Spinning quickly, I reach for my knife, but what I see has me pausing, unsure what to think.
A white chicken appears, pecking at the ground, none the wiser she almost gave me a heart attack.
I stare at her for seconds, certain I am hallucinating, but when she ambles over and squawks, I know that I haven’t lost my mind—yet.
Dropping to a squat, I offer my hand. I’m familiar with chickens as I grew up with many animals on the ranch I lived on. She waddles over unafraid and pecks my palm, clearly disappointed when I’m empty-handed. I can’t help but laugh. “Hi,” I coo. “What are you doing out here?”
She clucks in response.
Peering from left to right, I wonder if she’s on her own. She appears to be. I don’t know how she got here, but she’s proof someone else was here. I don’t know how long ago, but the fact is, this island may not be as remote as I once thought it to be.
Maybe someone sailed here, stopped for a few nights, then went on their way. Another ship will surely pass by soon. I’m sure of it. My new friend is a confirmation of it.
“Come on,” I say to the chicken, coming to a stand. She tilts her head from side to side, then follows me.
I have always loved animals, but finding this chicken feels like a miracle. In absolute nothingness, I found hope, something which I haven’t felt in days. When we reach the shore, I dump my things into the box and decide to walk along the beach to see if I can find anything to eat.
The chicken clucks, and I smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t eat you. Besides, my rule is, if you name something, you can’t eat it, and I name you…”
“A chicken?” Saint’s surprised voice booms from out of nowhere, scaring the chicken as she runs behind me.
I can practically see Saint’s tongue hit the ground as he visualizes roasting my friend over an open fire. Not on my watch.
I notice he has a brown wooden drum thrown over his shoulder. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at it.
“Rum,” he replies, eyes still fixated on the chicken.
“Rum?” I repeat. “You found that in the cave?”
He nods, dropping the keg onto the sand. “Yes. Where did you find the chicken?”
“I didn’t. She found me.” I step to the side when he advances forward.
He arches a brow. “What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?”
He purses his lips. “I’m going to make us lunch.”
When he continues marching toward me, I stand my ground, blocking his path. “I don’t think so.” When his nose scrunches up in confusion, I explain, “I named her. Therefore, she is my pet, and the rules are, you can’t eat a pet.”
“Rules?” he queries, confused. “Whose rules? That’s fucking ridiculous.”
“No, actually, it’s not.” I fold my arms firmly. “You can’t eat her.”
“What’s her name then?” he challenges.
Shit.
“Harriet,” I blurt out, unsure where the name came from, but it’ll do.
Saint places his hands on his hips, his cheeks billowing as he exhales. This is an argument he will not win. “I have a name for her.” I wait for him to enlighten me. “Pot pie.”
My lips twitch, but I refuse to laugh because he’s not eating my chicken. “Well, it looks like she has two names, so we definitely can’t eat her now.”
Harriet Pot Pie squawks in agreement.
“I can’t believe you’re going to keep her as a pet.” He shakes his head, but there is no ammunition.
“She’ll be a lot more useful to us alive.” He waits for me to explain how. “Yes, we could eat her.” It feels sacrilegious even uttering those words. “But that will last us one maybe two meals. But I’m pretty sure having a constant supply of eggs will be more beneficial in the long run.”
He opens his mouth, ready to argue, but he closes it soon after. He knows I’m right. “Fine. But if she doesn’t lay any eggs, name or no name, she better watch out.”
I bite my lip to smother my smile.
“So we have coconuts and rum?”
Saint nods, rubbing the back of his neck. We’re both roasting under the sun. “I can’t find anything to eat other than fish. There are a few berry bushes growing up near the cave. They look like blackberries, but I can’t be sure. Mushrooms are growing everywhere, but I don’t fancy an acid trip or dying, so they’re out.
“I’ll gather what I can and test it out.”
“Test it how?”
He walks over to the coconuts and picks one up. “There a few ways,” he explains, walking toward me. “Place the plant against your wrist to see if it irritates the skin. Or touch it to your lips. Or tongue.”
I watch on in awe. How does he know all this?
He reaches for the knife in his back pocket and stabs the coconut in its three holes. When he finds the one he’s most happy with, he inserts his knife, making a small hole. “If you develop a rash or feel a tingle, it’s usually a sign the food is poisonous or not suitable to eat.” He passes me the coconut. “Drink.”
“How do you know all this?” I ask, accepting his offering. When I place the coconut to my lips and drink, a rush of endorphins swarms me as my body sings in delight. I had every intention of sharing, but I can’t stop drinking. Once I’m done, I shyly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
Saint smiles, gesturing I’m to give the coconut back to him. I do.
“It’s common knowledge,” he replies, walking over to a tree. When he smashes the coconut against the thick trunk, and it splits open, he cements his point.
But I scoff in humor. “Common knowledge for you maybe.”
He removes the meat of the coconut with his knife, offering me a piece of the white flesh. I practically lunge for it, stuffing it into my mouth. My ravenous stomach demands more.
“There are plenty of fish, so we shouldn’t starve.” He pries the meat off the coconut, popping a piece into his mouth. I am suddenly envious of that sliver.
“I can help fish.”
; Saint pauses from chewing, not looking too convinced. “In fear of you naming every fish we find, I think it’s best you stay here.”
“I’m pretty sure we discussed this,” I argue. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
I’m expecting World War III to erupt, but it doesn’t. “Suit yourself,” he says with a languid shrug. A bubble of disappointment stirs as I was prepared to go head to head.
A squawk breaks the silence.
“Actually, I better make some sort of coop for Harriet Pot Pie. I wouldn’t want her running away.”
Saint nods coolly, not at all amused by her name.
His aloofness is pissing me off. I am so used to us arguing that I don’t know what to do with this apathetic Saint. “Her being here means this island isn’t as remote as we believed it to be.”
He chews his coconut, mulling over my claims. “Yes, that’s true. Though the fact there is rum has me believing this is a route for outcasts.”
“Why?” I question.
“Because rum is a common currency of the seas. If someone was sailing on a yacht, you wouldn’t think they’d leave something like that behind.”
He’s right.
“So we wait until a ship passes?” I don’t know what the next step is.
“No, we just wait and see what happens.” He offers me the last of the coconut, which I thankfully accept.
I don’t know what his comment means, but it’s clear this conversation is over when he places the coconut shells on the box and brushes past me. Both Harriet Pot Pie and I watch as he walks along the shoreline, picking up a thin branch which he no doubt will sharpen into a spear and use to catch our dinner with.
Well, that was awfully unsatisfying.
This meek version of Saint confuses me. Yes, I’ve wanted him to allow me freedom, but now that I have it, I don’t know what to do with it. Seeing so many sides to him leaves me constantly questioning which is the real him.
Sighing, I decide to focus on finding material to build Harriet Pot Pie’s coop. I need to keep busy before I say or do something I’ll regret.
